


Thrown to the Wolves

by bronzedragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Compliant, F/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:07:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronzedragon/pseuds/bronzedragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theodore Nott's father has failed Voldemort one too many times. Voldemort has a history of punishing parents through their children, and this time is no exception...only instead of killing him outright, Voldemort hands Theodore Nott over to Fenrir Greyback. Nott then has to deal with the idea of being a half-breed in a world being taken over by Voldemort.</p>
<p>Takes place from October 16th, 1997 to August 31, 1998. Is canon-compliant until the events of May 2, 1998 (at least, until JKR releases any contradictory info on Pottermore. Is canon-compliant with all information we know about werewolves, Theodore Nott, and the Death Eaters.) </p>
<p>Contains violence and maybe NC-17 smut if I decide to publish that chapter. Also, non-archive warning for TW: Suicide attempt.</p>
<p>As it ties into the rest of my AU, I'm considering it "part of a series," although it's not nearly as related as all the next-gen pieces I'm going to put up, and could certainly be read as stand-alone. This individual story will be about 44-47 chapters, 118,000 words.</p>
<p>This is the first time I've ever published fanfic online, so reviews appreciated. (Also, I suck at titles, so if anyone has suggestions, also appreciated.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

   “My lord…my lord…please…mercy...please…”

           Lord Voldemort turned his snakelike gaze on the pleading man. The man was stretched out on the open ground before Voldemort, prostrating himself; a vivid sunset was shot through the sky behind them, but neither Voldemort nor his suppliant took any notice. Around them, several other Death Eaters were gathered. Most were watching impassively, showing no emotion, although one woman with long blonde hair was nearly shaking with horror, her arm wrapped protectively around her son; her son, a pale, pointed-faced boy, was trying to keep a blank face, but was clearly afraid. The man next to the pair, husband to the woman and the father to the boy, was staring at the scene with deadened, tired eyes. One Death Eater, a thickset, squat man, had an unconscious figure, bound with ropes, slung over his shoulder.

            All of them stared at the scene, but none of them made any move to assist the silver-haired man who had fallen at Voldemort’s feet. From time to time, it seemed that the man might reach out to grasp the Dark Lord’s ankles, but he never did, fearing to touch him.

            Instead, he repeated in that begging, shaking voice, “My lord…please…please...”

            “You have failed me once too often. Did I not promise you that you would be punished severely if you failed me again?”

            “Please, my lord, it was nothing…”

            “Nothing?” Those red slits of eyes flashed. “This, too, is nothing.”

            “My lord, please, please…think of his blood, it is pure…Theodore is my only son, my only child…last of my line…”

            “It is no matter. There are many suitable pure-blooded women who will be happy to bear the children of one of my Death Eaters, once the war is won. One of those may be your new heir.”

            “My lord, please…”

            “Silence!” Voldemort pointed his wand at the cowering Death Eater, and the man darted a gaze upwards, flinching. But Voldemort used no curse; instead, he looked to the lumpy Death Eater.

            “Bring the boy forward, Amycus,” Voldemort ordered. Amycus Carrow did so, dumping the body unceremoniously at Voldemort’s feet.

            With a flick of his wand, Voldemort removed the bonds that covered the captive’s body. The figure, a slight, long-limbed, dark-haired young man, did not stir.

            Voldemort pointed his wand at the boy at his feet, casting another spell. “ _Reenervate_.”

            The dark-haired boy twitched and moaned. The blonde woman seemed to fall a shade paler; her husband grasped her arm, as if willing her not do anything that might attract their master’s attention. The blond boy twisted his head away, trying to hide himself, as if hoping his former schoolmate would not notice him. For the moment, at least, he had nothing to fear: his classmate was still completely disoriented, barely aware of his surroundings.

            Voldemort stepped back, gesturing for his followers to do the same; even the Death Eater at his feet followed, crawling on hands and knees. Once there was several feet of space between the Death Eaters and their intended victim, he traced a long arc of golden light in a circle in the air with his wand; it fell, glittering, over the grass. All Voldemort’s Death Eaters were inside the circle. The semi-conscious boy, however, was not.

            “My lord…please…I beg of you to reconsider…I would do anything…” The silver-haired Death Eater at Voldemort’s feet

            “Anything, Nott?” Voldemort sounded amused. “Would you take his place?”

            At long last, the dark-haired figure on the ground stirred; at hearing the name, he turned his head to face them, although he did not yet appear strong enough to pull himself off the ground.

            For a moment, the dark blue eyes of the boy on the ground looked forward, searching for those of his father: but it was to no avail. The older Nott looked away. The blond Death Eater who was clutching his wife gave him a look of obvious disgust, but the elder Nott did not see it; his gaze was fixed firmly to the ground, his sallow cheeks flushed with shame.

            Voldemort took obvious pleasure in the father’s failure to face his son. “So you would do anything for him, so you say, except give your own life…” He laughed, then, a high-pitched laugh that several of his followers joined. “Rise and watch. Unless, of course, you would care to join your son.”

            Theodore Nott seemed to have regained enough strength to speak. He was putting his hands out in front of him, feeling the ground, testing himself. When he found that he was not yet strong enough to rise, he raised his head again and asked, his voice thick, “Father? What’s happening?”

            It was not his father who answered; the elder Nott had sunk to the ground, burying his face in his hands, whimpering uncontrollably. “Your father is being punished for his failures,” Voldemort said. “You are to be the instrument of that punishment. You have no wand, there is no one here who will respond to your cries, and, as you know, it is impossible to Apparate or Disapparate from the grounds of Hogwarts.”

            For a moment, panic flashed in the younger Nott’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a hooded, calculating gaze. “I…I haven’t done anything to offend you, have I, my Lord?”

            Voldemort’s slitlike eyes narrowed. “It is your father who has offended. His failures—”

            “His failures aren’t mine.” Theodore began to struggle to his feet; he was clearly exceedingly weak and rather dizzy, but managed to remain upright. “You…you gave him the choice of exchanging places with me. What if I offered to serve you in his place? I promise you I won’t make the same mistakes.” Shakily, he rolled up one sleeve. “You took Draco Malfoy into your service last year. I’m seventeen, I’m of age; I’m smarter than Draco, and a better wizard.” At that, the pale, pointed-faced boy’s eyes darted up sharply, but he neither said anything nor met Theodore’s eyes. Theodore had not noticed the reaction of the schoolmate he had just insulted; all his attention was fixed on Voldemort. “I’m better in classes, I’ve got more O.W.L.s; I’m more qualified. If you would let me take the Dark Mark, I would promise…”

            “An eager volunteer?” Voldemort’s eyebrow quirked up. “To save your own life, of course. But you would let your father take your place?”

            The younger Nott’s gaze flashed to his father, still on the ground, still cowering. A flash of hatred and hurt, a mere hint of the betrayal he felt, entered his gaze. Again, he shielded it quickly. “You say he deserves it,” he said smoothly. “Who am I to doubt my Lord?”

            Voldemort fixed his gaze on Theodore; for a moment, he seemed to be considering the teenager’s offer. But then, that gaze flashed up to the darkening sky, and he shook his head.

            “I already have a use for you,” Voldemort said. That strange smile pressed against those unnaturally thin lips once more. “Did you know that the name Nott has its connection to a goddess of the moon? Fitting, is it not…”

            Theodore Nott’s eyes widened as he darted his gaze up at the sky, realizing the meaning behind Voldemort’s words. He mouthed the words to himself: _Full moon_. Immediately, he began looking around at his surroundings with new interest, his gaze darting from flat land to Forbidden Forest and back again.

            But Voldemort’s attention had turned away from the younger Nott and back to the older. “Get him up,” he ordered two of his nearest Death Eaters. To the elder Nott, he added, “Or I’ll have you thrown outside with him.”

            Voldemort’s words had little effect, so the Death Eaters Voldemort had gestured to moved to help him up. One, a heavy-lidded woman, seized upon Nott’s right arm roughly. “Do you value your son over your loyalty to the Dark Lord?” she snarled. “If I had sons, I would gladly—”

            “—see them thrown to Greyback, yes, Bellatrix,” the other Death Eater said, unable to hide his disdain. “We are all, of course, loyal to the Dark Lord, and would undoubtedly do the same if we had children of our own…and, of course, if the Dark Lord thought us deserving of such punishment. Have you done anything that deserves his scorn?”

            Bellatrix shot him a furious gaze that, had it been a curse, would have lanced twin jets of green light into the man’s bent figure. He, however, was paying her no attention, grasping Nott’s other arm and hauling him up. “Come, Lycurgus, certainly you have no desire to join your son…” 

            At hearing that voice, the younger Nott darted his gaze back to the crowd of Death Eaters. “Headmaster Snape, please…”

            But Snape made no sign of recognition or reply. Instead, he was now looking up at the darkened sky, where the shimmering orb of the full moon had, at long last, made its appearance.

            Theodore did not wait for the werewolf to appear; instead, he looked around one last time, weighing his options, and finally darted towards the forest.

            At that, several of the Death Eaters could not restrain their laughter. “He has chosen wrongly, has he not, Nott?” Voldemort said in a soft voice. “Hopefully, Greyback will bring his prey back out into the open. It would be a shame for you to miss seeing him work.”

            And then, all the Death Eaters saw it: a flash of grey fur, darting through the forest with unnatural speed. The sight of the flash of grey was followed by a sound: a terrible scream that nearly sent the elder Nott to his knees once more. A few moments later, and they saw the figures drawing nearer: a shaggy grey wolf of immense size with a tufted tail and pointed snout, fangs dripping with blood, clutching the struggling figure of Theodore Nott between its jaws. The werewolf was playing with his prey, tossing him up, and Theodore was still trying to struggle free, still fighting to survive.

            The werewolf reared up and attacked again with renewed savagery. Some of the Death Eaters, Bellatrix Lestrange among them, were laughing openly, watching the scene with twisted glee; others, such as Bellatrix’s sister Narcissa, had turned away. Theodore’s father Lycurgus had his head fixed firmly forward, but his eyes were elsewhere, distant and grief-stricken. Draco Malfoy, the youngest of the Death Eaters, had turned a shade paler and looked as if he was going to be sick.

            The werewolf reared on his heels and bit again, more deeply; Theodore Nott fell limp, his robes soaked with blood.

            “My Lord,” Snape said, his voice thick and silky, “if you want the boy alive and useful, perhaps it would be best to end this now, before Greyback finishes him completely? He does have the unfortunate tendency to get rather…carried away…with his work.”

            Voldemort’s eyes glittered. “A volunteer, then, to drive him off…?”

            “As you command, my Lord,” Snape said. Without hesitation, he stepped beyond the golden circle of protection, aiming his wand at Greyback. A moment later, the werewolf fell back, letting out a high-pitched whine as he turned tail and retreated into the forest.

            “Let our four-legged friend spend the rest of the night there, then,” Voldemort said; once more, there was the same wave of derisive laughter. The only Death Eater who did not join in was Snape, who was hunched over the unconscious, blood-stained seventh-year, ripping Nott’s robes away to reveal the wounds beneath. He worked hurriedly, producing numerous small vials that had been concealed within his robes, unstoppering them and pouring their contents over the wounds. The many potions steamed and frothed as they touched the bloody bite-marks and scratches.

            “Such care, Severus?” Voldemort’s voice was lightly mocking. “I don’t recall you ever having much love for werewolves.”

            “If he dies, the boy loses whatever usefulness he might have to you, my Lord,” Snape replied; straightening, he lifted the boy in his arms. “I doubt he will survive in the school’s infirmary. Shall I take him to St. Mungo’s?”

            “Return to your school and your students, Severus,” Voldemort said. “You, too, Alecto, Amycus, Draco. Travers, take that to St. Mungo’s.” He nodded unconcernedly at the limp, bloody form of Theodore Nott. “The rest of you…” He waved a long-fingered hand. “You are dismissed.”

            Snape handed the body over to Travers, who took it, holding it as if he was carrying a particularly disgusting piece of garbage. One by one, the Death Eaters disappeared back into the night as silently as they had come. Even Lycurgus Nott was silent, shell-shocked and silent, as he reached the edge of the school grounds and Disapparated. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theodore wakes up the morning after.

            Theodore Nott awoke. His mind was foggy, and for a panicked moment he had no idea where he was; he tried to sit up, but felt a wrenching pain across his chest and arm and gave a short cry, slipping back down.

            _What happened?_ As the memories began rushing back, he wished he hadn’t remembered. His memories were all too vivid: being Stunned, waking groggily on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, seeing the Death Eaters congregated around the Dark Lord himself, hearing that high-pitched, pitiless voice pronounce that he was to be the instrument of his father’s punishment.

           _And then…_ Nott remembered everything. The realization of what was going to happen, the few desperate moments in which he’d dared to let himself hope that Voldemort would let him take the Dark Mark instead of the bite…

            And Greyback himself, Fenrir Greyback, the animal he’d heard his father speak of with such disdain. Greyback, who had—

            _No_. The full impact of his memories struck him like a blow. Ignoring all the pain, ignoring everything, he sat up, throwing back the hospital blankets, pulling down the front of his gown, feeling beneath the bandages with his fingers.

            He found them. Bite marks – not just one set, but many, ranging from tiny nips to bites so deep that he could still put his fingers into the places where the flesh had been ripped away. There were scratches and gashes and all other manner of wounds, yes, but the bites were what mattered.

            He fell back on the pillow. _I knew it,_ he thought. He remembered Greyback sinking his teeth into him, the wolf biting through his shoulder as if it were made of tissue paper. Nott thought the wolf had bitten clear through his shoulder at one point, although he had thankfully passed out before long. But he remembered trying to defend himself, struggling to run, hoping to somehow elude the wolf in the depths of the forest – and remembered his failure.

            _That’s it, then,_ he thought, staring at the ceiling. There was no hope. He was a filthy half-breed. He, Theodore Nott, a pure-blood with a pedigree that went back to the fourteenth century, was now one of them: a werewolf, an animal no better than Greyback himself.

           _My life is over._ Pain twisted deep within him, then, pain that didn’t come from his injuries, but he forced it back. Theodore Nott had always been a logical, sensible young man; he knew exactly what would happen to him, and made himself face it now.

            _I don’t know where my wand is,_ he thought. It had been taken from him when he’d been Stunned; he felt incomplete without it, the twelve-inch length of willow and unicorn hair that marked him as a wizard.

            He knew he would never see it again. Lord Voldemort controlled the country now, and he wouldn’t give wands to werewolves, even those who had been through Hogwarts. Nott knew his time there was over; he would never be allowed back.

 _What’s left there for me, anyway?_ he asked himself. All his friends would shun him. He would be stared at, scorned, ridiculed. He remembered how they’d treated their werewolf professor his third year; when Snape had told his House about how Hogwarts had hired a werewolf to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, Theodore had helped spread the word.

 _I called him an animal,_ he remembered. He’d spread rumors, exaggerated how poor a professor the werewolf had been, telling everyone who would listen that Professor Snape should have been allowed to take his place. He’d even written to his father so Lycurgus could file a formal complaint with Hogwarts’s board of governors against Albus Dumbledore for hiring a werewolf; dozens of parents had done so, protesting that a dangerous half-breed had been allowed to live amongst hundreds of innocent children who might have become his victims. The werewolf had been run out of Hogwarts, forced to resign.

Nott knew his fate would be no better; he knew he would never set foot within Hogwarts again. He had no illusions about how his father would treat him: Lycurgus Nott had never been close to his only child, and Theodore knew his father’s opinions on filthy half-breeds. Nor could Theodore forgive him: he knew that he would never forget that, although his father had made a show of pleading for mercy, he’d ultimately refused to do anything that might have saved his son’s life.

 _His life meant more to him than mine_. Although he knew that, in the same circumstances, he would have saved himself, he still felt angry with his father for refusing the Dark Lord’s offer.

 _I’m his son,_ Theodore couldn’t help thinking. He had the feeling that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would have done anything to save their son if Draco had been in his place, and he certainly knew that Luther Selwyn or Titus Mulciber would have gladly given their lives for their own sons. His father was a cold man and a coward; Theodore Nott knew that, whatever happened to him now, he was on his own.

“So you’re awake!” a falsely cheery voice said, interrupting his thoughts. Theodore looked up to see a wide-faced man standing in the doorway, a stiff smile plastered across his lips. “I’m Healer Smethwyck; I’m in charge of this ward. You’ve been here four days. If the man who found you hadn’t done some quick work with some healing potions, I’m afraid we would have lost you. You’re a very lucky young man—”

Nott couldn’t believe his ears. “ _Lucky_?” There were three other patients in the ward; two were asleep, but one turned to gawk at him. “Maybe I’d be better off dead.”

“Come, come,” the Healer clucked. “Lycanthropy is a most unfortunate occurrence, but it is a manageable condition.”

"I won’t be allowed back into Hogwarts, will I?” His voice stayed flat; he already knew the answer.

“I – I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that question. I believe it would be the Headmaster’s decision—”

 _Headmaster Snape, who hates werewolves_ , Theodore thought. He remembered how much Snape had hated Professor Lupin, the werewolf teacher; he’d taken Snape’s side at the time, of course, but he knew there was no chance that Severus Snape would allow a werewolf into his school.

Theodore pressed on. “My father hasn’t come to see me, has he?” Again, his voice was flat; he was even more certain of this answer than he had been of the one before it.

        The Healer shifted uncomfortably; even before he stammered “I’m afraid not,” the answer had come in his silence.

        _He’ll never talk to me again,_ Theodore thought. That wasn’t as bad as the thought of never returning to Hogwarts; he didn’t really like his father, but being at Hogwarts was a symbol of his belonging to the Wizarding world. Being expelled from Hogwarts was proof the rest of the world had rejected him.

        But his father’s rejection meant he had nowhere to go – nowhere, that was, unless the Dark Lord had made plans for him. He remembered Voldemort’s comments about having a use for him, and had to wonder what that use was.

        _As a threat? As an animal – a weapon?_ Theodore Nott had no illusions about the sort of service a werewolf would be able to give to the Dark Lord. He knew how Death Eaters spoke of werewolves. Fenrir Greyback didn’t even have a Dark Mark.  

        Healer Smethwyck kept speaking; his tone was rushed, and Nott had the definitive sense that Smethwyck wanted to get the conversation over with as soon as possible. He wasn’t even meeting Theodore’s eyes as he spoke; his glance darted from the foot of the bed to the wall behind Theodore’s head, but never quite reached Theodore himself. “You’ll be here for another week or two at least, until the worst of those wounds have healed, but you’ll be discharged before the full moon.”

“What am I supposed to do then?”

Smethwyck shifted again. “Someone from the Werewolf Office will discuss that with you before discharge. In general, I believe they advise Apparating to a remote, uninhabited area if you can’t afford the Wolfsbane Potion.”

        _Which I can’t, since I don’t have any money of my own,_ Nott thought. He hoped that they’d saved the clothes he’d come in; however damaged they might be, they were the only clothes he had.

“I believe you’ll make a good recovery, although I’m afraid you’ll have a significant amount of permanent scarring; magical bites from Dark creatures don’t respond well to the usual potions. You did a good job of protecting your head and neck, but there is really little possibility of defending yourself from a werewolf attack if you have been Disarmed.”

 _I wasn’t Disarmed, I was Stunned and dragged out of Hogwarts,_ Theodore wanted to protest, but held his breath. It didn’t matter how it had happened; the end result was the same.

        “Can I have a mirror?” He could feel his scars, but wanted to know how bad they truly were.

         Healer Smethwyck hesitated, but nodded. “I’ll bring one soon.”

         Smethwyck went on, talking about the regimen of potions, dressing changes, and various magical ointments and salves they’d be using on his injuries; said that Trainee Healer Pye would be in later to take a look at his bandages, and finally left with a distinct air of relief at having gotten a particularly unpleasant duty over with.

         Theodore looked around at the other inhabitants of the ward. He swallowed. “Is anyone else here—” he began, but the patient in the bed next to his cut him off.

         “I was bitten by a hippogriff; I breed them for a living,” he said archly. “The woman in the far bed was gored by a unicorn while trying to illegally harvest its hair, and the other man got mauled by a Crup.”

         “A Crup?” Nott peered down the aisle. The man who had supposedly been bitten by the terrier-size dog was swathed in bandages; he looked worse-off than Nott himself.

         “Well, a Crup he’d been trying to Charm. They said it was the size of a six-month-old dragon with fangs like a vampire by the time he’d gotten done with it – and _then_ he tried to take its tail off with a Severing Charm, but he made a right mess of it, and I don’t think the Crup liked it very much.” The man’s joviality faded as he drew himself up in the bed.  “But he’ll make a full recovery, given enough time. Like the rest of us.”

        _And I’ll be a werewolf the rest of my life_ , Theodore thought. He hated the man’s tone; he hated the way he looked at him, as if he’d been permanently, irreversibly contaminated, the bite making him something less than human. He hated it more than anything, because he knew the man was right: he felt the same way about himself. 


	3. Chapter Three

        As the days began to pass, Theodore Nott sunk into a deep depression. He had no appetite; he slept whenever he could, and spent the rest of his time staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the constant stream of visitors who tramped in and out of the ward, bringing gifts and comfort to the other patients. He hated the visitors’ inevitable questions, hearing the curious “What happened to the rest of them?” and the response, always ending with, “That one got bitten by a werewolf. No cure, you know.” He hated their stares more than their questions, the look of mingled fear and pity that was written so plainly across their faces. Sometimes they’d ask “How long ‘til full moon?” or “Shouldn’t he be locked up somewhere? A private room…one that’s more secure?” as if he was a mad dog who could bite at any time. More than anything, he hated the way that they’d avert their gaze if he stared straight at them, giving them a look that dared them to say anything; they’d try to pretend they hadn’t been looking in his direction at all, acting as if he didn’t exist. He couldn’t say he blamed them, even if he hated them for it; after all, he knew that he would have done the same if he’d run across a werewolf a week earlier.

        But he got good at perfecting that stare. Being ignored was better than being stared at and whispered about; if they were going to make him feel like an animal on display in a zoo, he could take some comfort in trying to make them feel as uncomfortable as he did.

His wounds were healing. Healer Pye had delivered the mirror the day after he’d woken up, and he’d used it to examine every inch of his body he could. The worst scars were mostly raked across his upper abdomen and arms, though they extended down to his waist. He’d been bitten several times, but the worst bite was near where his arm and shoulder joined, near his armpit. His neck was mottled with thin scratches, but he’d protected his face, which was largely unscarred: he’d taken a light gash on his right jaw, but it looked as if it might fade to nothing. His eyes were intact, his nose hadn’t been broken or ripped off, and his ears were still whole.

        _What does it matter?_ he couldn’t help thinking. _No one’s ever going to look at me again._ The Healers spoke in that fake, forced tone, the man in the bed next to him talked to him only to tell him exactly how unfortunate he was, and the other two inhabitants of the ward refused to look at him. He’d heard the woman telling Healer Smethwyck that they should have him isolated, as if she could catch lycanthropy from breathing the same air; sometimes, he caught her watching him fearfully, looking for all the world as if she thought he might spring from the bed and transform into a mad wolf at any moment. The man who’d been bitten by the hippogriff even said once, in a tone loud enough for the entire ward to hear, that he didn’t understand why they didn’t just ‘put those things down.’

      _I’ll never have friends,_ he thought. He’d dated several girls during his time at Hogwarts; he knew that none of them would ever look at him again.

Strangely, those losses didn’t particularly bother him. Although some of the other boys might consider him a friend - he'd grown up around Draco Malfoy, Gregory Goyle, and Vincent Crabbe as a child, and thought they might still apply the label to him - he didn't return it. He’d never had anyone he'd been able to consider a real friend, because he’d never found anyone he could consider an equal. While he’d always hoped to find a pure-blooded Slytherin who was as clever as himself; he’d never met one. Zabini was consumed with his own vanity, Malfoy all empty talk, Crabbe and Goyle nearly subhuman in their intellectual capacity. The girls were worse: Pansy Parkinson was a simpering slut, Millicent Bulstrode a blunt ax. For a House that was supposed to accept cunning, resourceful people, Theodore Nott had always thought there were remarkably few. He didn’t mourn the loss of his current connections; instead, he mourned losing the possibility of ever having friends, feeling all the bitterness of knowing that even Crabbe and Goyle would now be considered his superiors.

        _What do I have left to live for?_ he asked himself during those long hours of staring at the ceiling, trying to tune out the hippogriff-bitten man’s insults and invective. The Dark Lord wanted to use him for something; he could make himself useful to the cause he’d once believed in, but he didn’t want to.

      _The Dark Lord’s the one who decided to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night so Greyback could maul me,_ he thought. He’d reveled in Theodore’s pain, not caring that he was destroying his life. Theodore had no desire to help him; if anything, he wanted to see Voldemort mauled by a werewolf and abandoned by all his followers, left alone to feel the world’s scorn.

        _The Dark Lord, a werewolf…_ For the first time since the attack, Theodore Nott smiled thinly. He could imagine the Death Eaters falling away in horror, abandoning the filthy half-breed.

        He sighed. There was no chance of it. Even if he’d wanted to devote the rest of his life to figuring out a way to bite Voldemort, there was no chance he would ever succeed. As a werewolf, he would be a mindless animal, with no way to direct the attacks. And Voldemort would have a wand, not to mention more magical talent than Theodore Nott could ever hope to possess.

        _But I don’t want to serve him_ , he thought. _I don’t want to help him. I’m not going to be his instrument._

        _What am I going to do with the rest of my life? My life is over._ Voldemort had triumphed: he controlled the Ministry, Hogwarts, the entirety of the Wizarding world in Britain. There was no escape, either from Voldemort or his own lycanthropy.  

         _My life is over_. That thought him struck him with perfect clarity. He had nothing left to him, no future, nothing to look forward to. No one would ever love him; no one would ever want to befriend him. There would be no equal to meet, because that equal would never want to set eyes upon a werewolf, let alone speak to one. Voldemort would want to use him; he could undoubtedly compel him into obeying if Nott didn’t want to, whether through the Imperius Curse or the promise of a Killing Curse if he didn’t cooperate. He would be made to live as a wolf, doing the Dark Lord’s bidding until he was no longer useful, at which point he'd undoubtedly be hunted down like a beast. He would be a slave to the man he hated until the day of his death.

        He knew it was true: he had nothing left to lose, nowhere to go, no one to care about him. He had no wand, no family, no life except the one Voldemort would choose for him, and that life would be no life at all.

        So, after supper that night, Theodore Nott calmly took his dinner knife and put it to work on his wrists. It was silvery, and he hoped that it would at least have a silver-plated coating; he didn’t remember much from the essay he’d written for his third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class on how to kill a werewolf, but he thought that he remembered silver could hurt them, and the knife was the best tool he had.

He did it openly, in plain view of the other patients, without saying a word; he knew their opinions on werewolves, and doubted that any of them would care enough for a wolf to summon the Healers. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go and hide. He hadn’t left the hospital bed since his arrival at St. Mungo’s; he could draw the bedcurtains, but that would only call attention to himself. Why bother?

        He passed out without hearing any of them calling out, the blood from his wrists soaking into his sheets, and felt only satisfaction. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the spacing is a bit wonky here. I've tried re-importing it multiple times and fixing it manually and it's still a bit off.

            To Theodore's surprise, he awoke the next morning, with the very concerned face of Healer Pye looking down at him.

            “You gave us all quite a scare,” he said reproachfully. “We’ll have to keep an eye on you; we might not even be able to release you on time.”

            “You should have let me die.” Nott knew that Pye’s threat was empty; there was no way they could hold him past the next full moon. 

            Pye seemed taken aback. “I…”

            “What do I have to live for? I’m a werewolf. It would probably be better if someone did put me down.”

            Augustus Pye couldn’t help a glance at the man in the next bed, the one who’d made the comment in the first place. With a start, Theodore realized that Pye must've heard the other man's invective at some point. That man was steadfastly looking in the other direction, pretending he couldn’t see or hear them. “That’s not true.” 

            Theodore nodded in the other patient's direction. “Tell that to him.”

            “He’s the one who called for help.”

            That surprised Theodore, but he gave no outward sign of it. “I don’t know why.”

            Healer Pye sighed and shook his head. “People can be ignorant of the effect their words can have. Whatever they might say, they—

    “—don’t want someone’s blood on their hands?” It was the only reason Nott could think of.      

            “Why  _shouldn’t_ I kill myself? I’m already dead to the rest of the world,” Theodore said bitterly. “No one would miss a filthy half-breed.”

             “If you let me live, I’ll kill someone the next time I change. I’ll hurt someone. I don’t have enough money to buy Wolfsbane Potion, and I don’t have anywhere to go. My father won’t have anything to do with me.”

            “Someone from the Werewolf Office will be here to talk to you,” said Pye. “They have an office devoted to Support Services. Please, listen to what they have to say. They’ll make sure that you’ll survive, and they’ll talk to you about steps you can take to avoid hurting people.”

            “What kind of life am I going to have?” Theodore repeated. “I can’t go back to school, I can’t go home, I don’t have my wand. What do I have left?”

            “You have your life,” Pye said simply. “I’m a Healer; I see people die every week in this hospital. Have you ever known anyone who was ill – really and truly ill?”

            Theodore thought of his mother. She’d died when he was nine, wasting away from a slow, incurable illness that had eaten through her like acid through a cauldron bottom. He was glad she hadn’t lived to see him like this; he could remember her imploring him to stay healthy for her, and he didn’t want her to know how badly he’d failed.

            “Most people who are dying would give anything for another day of life. I could show you half a dozen people in this hospital who would give anything to live a long life as a werewolf, because they know they’re not going to live another month as a wizard. You still have your mind; I have a friend who works in the long-term Spell Damage ward, and he can show you people who have been there for decades and will be there for decades to come – insane, trapped in a half-Transfigured body, wizards and witches who have become more like vegetables than human beings.” He grimaced. “Sometimes literally.”  

            “You still have your mind. You still have your health. Once a month, only at night, that’s all.”

            Theodore wasn’t paying attention to Augustus Pye; he was still thinking of his mother. She had been so light, so fragile, so young – Selene Nott had been decades younger than Lycurgus, young enough to have been her husband's daughter. After her illness, Lycurgus had never helped care for her; he hadn’t known how. Lycurgus Nott had hated being helpless. He was a Death Eater, pledged to serve a man who had sworn to overcome death itself, but there had been nothing he could do when death came for his own wife. Theodore had been the one who’d stayed at her side, had watched her slip away slowly, wracked with pain that no potion or spell could help.

            _She wouldn’t want me to die_ , he thought. He wanted to believe that, if Selene Nott had still been alive, she would have visited him. He wanted to believe that she would have loved him even after he’d become a werewolf; he felt, even knew, that she would have done the same things for him he’d done for her. She would have sponged his wounds out, repositioned his pillows, gotten him whatever he needed. She would have helped him swallow the Healers’ potions; she would have sat by his bed and talked to him for hours as he’d done for her, distracting her from the pain and exhaustion, trying to replace despair with some shred of hope. 

            _What do I have left to live for?_ he asked himself again. He thought – hoped – his mother would have wanted him to live, but she was gone.

            _For all you know, she might have stayed away. She might have said you were better off dead_. But he couldn’t believe it: Theodore Nott was cynical by nature, but there was still some part of him that told himself that his mother had been different, that she would not have abandoned him as his father had.

            _Father would rather have me dead,_  he realized. As a werewolf, Theodore Nott was a diseased branch on his family tree, a half-breed whose very existence was a stain on the family honor. Lycurgus Nott would be ashamed of having such a son.

_If I die, he can forget about me. He can do exactly what the Dark Lord told him: take a new pure-blood wife and have new pure-blood children to replace me._

_If I’m still alive, he’ll never be able to forget. I’ll always be a reminder of how cowardly he was – of how he failed the Dark Lord, and how he gave me to Greyback instead of taking the punishment himself._  The other Death Eaters would never let him forget it. The Death Eaters might present a united front to the outside world, but within the organization, they were a petty bunch, always trying to one-up one another in the quest to be the most perfect of pure-bloods.

_If I can, I’ll find a way to get Greyback,_  he told himself. Revenge was another reason for living; if he died now, Greyback would have won. Slowly, he realized that his desperate, half-hearted action the night before had been wrong: he should never have given up so easily.

_My life is still over,_ he thought. He would never be fully human again; he would never return to Hogwarts or take his N.E.W.T.s. He would never become a Healer at St. Mungo’s, as he’d dreamt of doing since his mother's death; he would never meet a pure-blood girl and continue the Nott family line, as generations of Notts had done before him.

            But he could do something with the scraps of life that were left to him. He could try to avenge himself on everyone who’d wronged him. Yesterday, even those tiny fragments of life had seemed intolerable; now, he decided, he might be able to live with it.

_If I can humiliate my father and kill Greyback, I can live,_  he decided. If he was lucky, he might be able to bite his father; he knew that the Dark Lord was out of the question, but he could at least hope to get back at the man who had flatly refused to save him.

_Greyback manages to get himself where he can bite his targets_ , Theodore reasoned. If he couldn’t, he wouldn’t have been such an effective threat. Maybe he could figure out how Greyback did it.

            _Revenge_ , he thought. It was as good a reason as any he could think to stay alive – the only reason, really. Theodore Nott would agree to live, if only out of sheer spite. 

            “I won’t do it again,” he promised Pye.

            Relief washed over the Healer's face. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure that the representative of the Ministry will be of assistance in any way he knows how. In the meantime…” He still looked worried. “Please don’t try anything like that again. As it is, we’ve had to add a Blood-Replenishing Potion to your medications.”

            “I won’t,” Theodore promised, but he noticed that they watched him more carefully after that. He didn’t get any more knives at dinner: the food came pre-cut, with a fork and spoon, and even the tines of the fork were blunted. He also noticed that there was always a Healer lurking in the corners of the ward, watching him.

            _I can’t blame them,_  he thought. He was sure that there was a lot of paperwork involved if a patient committed suicide, even if no one really cared about them. At any rate, he was glad when they discharged the hippogriff-bitten man the next day.

            He didn’t thank the man for saving his life, and the man didn’t acknowledge him before he left. Theodore found he didn’t care.

_It doesn’t matter if I’m invisible to the rest of the world, or beneath them,_  he thought. He had his own mission, and he wouldn’t stop until he completed it or died in the attempt. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

            The rest of Theodore’s time in the hospital passed quickly. The Healers released the two remaining patients in the ward within days of the hippogriff breeder, and no new patients arrived to replace them. As the full moon drew nearer, Healer Smethwyck began avoiding the ward, sending the trainee Healer in his place. Healer Pye was better about making eye contact and not flinching when he touched Theodore’s skin while changing his bandages, but his pity was palpable.

            Theodore hated that pity. It was almost as bad as the hippogriff breeder’s disdain, worse than the woman’s fright or the naked hatred he’d seen on the faces of so many of their visitors. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone. He didn’t want pity; he didn’t want disdain. He didn’t even want respect; he knew he didn’t deserve it.

            _I’m a werewolf,_ he thought. He knew that there was no place for him in the Wizarding world, and he had no idea what he would do once they’d discharged him from the hospital, where he would sleep or how he would eat.

            Those answers were provided for him abruptly just a few days before full moon: Travers showed up at his bedside one morning, trailed by a clearly-frightened Healer Pye.

            “I’m taking charge of you,” Travers said. His tone was clipped; unlike most people, he looked directly at Theodore, but his gaze was filled with open disgust. “His orders.”

            Theodore didn’t have to ask who ‘he’ was. “Where am I going?”

             “With me.”

            “I need my clothing,” Theodore said, trying his best to keep the acidity from his voice; he was wearing a hospital gown, and wanted nothing more than to point out that he wasn’t going anywhere without proper robes, but knew that antagonizing an armed Death Eater was pure stupidity. “Is there any way to get my trunk from Hogwarts? Or—” He knew he was being foolish, but couldn’t stop himself from asking the hopeful question. “—am I getting to go back?”

            Travers gave a short laugh; Healer Pye, despite his fear, shot the Death Eater an angry look. Nott wondered if Pye was truly stupid, or if he was braver than he looked.

            Augustus Pye was fortunate; Travers’s attention was focused on Theodore Nott, not the Healer. “You’re a werewolf. Do you think Snape would really allow a filthy half-breed like you to disgrace his House?” Travers laughed. “Your father snapped your wand himself.” He watched Theodore hungrily, with obvious pleasure, as he took an object from his robes and threw it onto Theodore’s bed: the remains of his wand. Theodore knew as soon as he touched it that it had been his; he knew just as well that it had been damaged beyond repair, snapped and shattered, with shreds of unicorn tail-hair clearly visible between splinters of wood.

            Theodore had expected it, but even so, he couldn’t stop something in his heart from sinking. His wand was the one sign he’d had of still belonging to the Wizarding world. Without it, he was—

            _Nothing. An animal,_ he thought. _Worse than a Muggle or a Mudblood – not even human._

            “Here.” Travers drew a wadded-up parcel from within his robes. “Get dressed.”

            Nott unwrapped the parcel to find a set of robes. He thought they were from his closet at home; they smelled slightly musty, like the Nott family residence, but they were clean and fit perfectly.

             “I’ll need to change your dressings once more before you go,” Healer Pye said. He glanced at Travers. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping out, sir? The sight of werewolf bites can be disturbing to most who aren’t used to encountering such injuries on a regular basis. The wounds are…rather gorier than most, I’m afraid.” 

            “Make it quick,” Travers said, but retreated hastily; apparently, despite his penchant for torture, he had little stomach for most things medical.

            As soon as Travers had gone, Pye leaned in and began to speak to Theodore. “He said he’s a Ministry representative, but…” A doubtful expression passed across Pye’s face.

            Theodore had to suppress a grim smile. “He’s from the Ministry, all right.” Travers, Mulciber, even Nott’s own father: they all had Ministry jobs now, positions in the Ministry they’d been imprisoned for trying to break into less than two years before. In some cases, they’d taken the places of men they’d murdered.

            “If you don’t want to go with him—”

            Theodore shook his head. “I’ll go.” He knew he had no choice: there was nowhere else for him to go. Whatever awaited him at the hands of the Dark Lord, it had to be better than joining the hordes of dirty, wandless beggars who crowded the streets of Diagon Alley, at the mercy of dementors or other Dark creatures.

            “Really—” Pye frowned as he finished changing the dressings. “I wish you the best,” he said finally. Again, Theodore could hear the strong undercurrent of pity in his voice.

            Theodore couldn’t imagine what ‘the best’ might be; he had the feeling that, if he’d asked, Healer Pye wouldn’t have known either. He finally gave a sort-of shrug, not knowing what he could say.

            Pye hesitated, apparently not wanting to call Travers back; Theodore took the opportunity to stow the remains of his wand in his robes. “Don’t say anything,” he said in a low tone as he tucked the splinters of willow and unicorn hair into an inner pocket. He knew he couldn’t repair it, but his wand meant more to him than anything else he’d ever owned. It meant even more now, even when it was damaged beyond repair. It was a symbol of what he’d been. “If he asks, you threw it out.”

            In that moment, he saw more pity in Augustus Pye’s gaze than he’d ever seen there before. But the Healer said nothing more to him as he reluctantly rose and walked out into the hallway to retrieve Travers.

            “Come on,” the Death Eater said roughly. “I haven’t got all day.”  

            Swallowing, Theodore got up from the bed and walked out with Travers. Mortain Travers was a longtime friend of his father’s; along with Titus Mulciber and Lucifer Avery, he was one of Lycurgus Nott’s closest friends. Together, they’d been four of the earliest Death Eaters; a generation older than most, each had offered over forty years of service to the Dark Lord. Avery and Mulciber had sons of their own who’d been Death Eaters for more than twenty years.

            Travers was quite familiar to Theodore; he had often stopped by the Nott home to visit, always joking and laughing. One of his favorite tricks was to use the Imperius Curse on the Nott family house-elves to make them do things that sent the rest of the room into convulsions of laughter. As a child, Theodore had always liked it when Travers would make the elves scratch themselves and pick their nose; his mother had preferred it when he’d made the elves do gymnastics, cartwheeling and doing handstands while singing the silliest songs. Theodore had often been grateful to Travers for bringing a smile to his mother’s face when nothing else would, especially in the early days of her illness, before she’d had to go to St. Mungo’s.

            “They’ve got to obey anyway,” she had said once when Theodore had asked her why she liked the gymnastics better than the elves’ other antics. “If you order them to, they’ll do anything you ask. But they can’t do backflips by themselves, and this way they can’t punish themselves for failing.”

            But Selene Nott had hated the more vicious of Travers’s tricks, and even Theodore had been uncomfortable at times. Travers had actually made one of the house-elves set itself on fire once, convulsing with laughter as he watched it hop around burning, the Imperius Curse keeping it from showing the slightest sign of pain, but Selene had gone so pale that Lycurgus had made him stop.

            “You’re damaging the property, Mortain. They’re a breeding pair; the bitch isn’t much good without the stud.”

            “Ah, maybe Lucius Malfoy will lend you his if you want to breed them,” Travers had said glibly, but he’d extinguished the elf. “You know, you just order them to, and they’ll keep trying until they’ve got a litter.”

            But as soon as he’d removed the Imperius Curse, the house-elf had started screaming; that had only stopped when Lycurgus had given the order for the elf to ‘shut up and stop your whining before I order you to set yourself on fire again and let you burn.’ It was a fairly good indication of what Travers – and, Theodore knew, his father, and the rest of his father’s friends – felt about non-wizards. And Theodore knew that he wasn’t a wizard any more.

            So he wasn’t surprised when Travers said nothing to him, only a curt, “Follow me.” They walked out of the ward, into the hallway.

            “Take my arm.”

            “I can Apparate,” Theodore protested. “I passed my test. Just tell me where we’re going.”

            He was completely unprepared for what happened next: Travers backhanded him roughly. His hands were abrasive and scraped Theodore’s face.

            “You’re not a wizard,” Travers snarled. “You’re not Apparating anywhere, you filthy werewolf.” Theodore fumed silently as he realized that Travers was going to make him use Side-Along-Apparition, like a child.

            And then, another thought struck him, as dull and heavy as the blow Travers had just dealt: _He didn’t even curse me. I’m not even worthy of using magic against._

            He was surprised that Travers hadn’t used magic against him to prove a point; raising his wand against Theodore to underscore the difference between them might have had an even greater effect.

_He was never that bright,_ he thought resentfully. Lycurgus Nott had always exemplified the ‘cunning’ aspect of Slytherin House better than the rest of his companions;  Lucifer Avery was decently intelligent, though without Lycurgus’s quick-mindedness, but Titus Mulciber and Mortain Travers were both crude in their violence. Theodore Nott often thought that his father surrounded himself with men stupider than he was in order to make himself feel smart; he’d seen Draco Malfoy do the same at school with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.

            _I’d rather be alone than with idiots_. Most of the time at school, he had been; he had no close friends. There was no one who would care about him now, no one who would even attempt to send an owl to his home, wondering what had happened. At school, he hadn’t cared, knowing himself superior to his classmates. He’d had no need to be liked; he was clever, and it had been enough.

            Now, though, he wished there was someone who would have cared, someone who would have been his friend even when his father had abandoned him.

            _Is there ever really anyone?_ he wondered. He knew that Crabbe and Goyle wouldn’t have cared if Draco had died trying to assassinate Dumbledore the year before; they would have found themselves a new leader, and that would have been that.

            _But Draco’s parents care about him,_ a small, taunting voice said in his head. _Someone loves him_.

            _Not enough_ , he told himself. He wanted to believe that, if it had been Draco in his position, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy would have remained as resolutely silent as his father.

            _But would they have?_ He didn’t know. Not every parent was as unfeeling as Lycurgus Nott. Theodore believed that Lucius, at least, would have made the same reply as Lycurgus if Voldemort had given him the same choice, offered to trade his life for Draco’s.

            _Or is it just your father?_ A voice inside his head mocked him, worried at his thoughts, made him wonder if he was truly the only one whose father wouldn’t have taken his place.

            _No,_ he told himself firmly. _Crabbe, Goyle, any of them – they’d be here now, too, if they’d been in your place. If their fathers had angered Voldemort._

            It didn’t matter. Either way, his father’s decision was still as Unforgivable as the Cruciatus Curse – more so, in Nott’s opinion.

            _Things were never the same after Mother died, but we’re still family, or we were. I thought we were._ He wasn’t particularly close to his father, but, even so, they’d always been loyal to one another; he’d stuck up for his father after Lycurgus had been imprisoned in Azkaban for breaking into the Department of Mysteries, while his father had always spoken freely of the Death Eaters and their plans around Theodore, treating him almost like a fellow Death Eater. He’d certainly expected Theodore to follow in his footsteps, and Theodore had acquiesced without ever really thinking about it. The Dark Lord would triumph; Theodore would benefit most from being on the side of the victors; he would be a Death Eater, and reap the rewards of his status.

            _Rewards,_ he thought bitterly.

            “Take my arm,” Travers repeated, shaking Theodore from his reverie. “Didn’t you hear me?”

            Theodore had no desire to be struck again. Grasping Travers’s arm, he followed the Death Eater’s lead, spinning as Travers did. Moments later, they reappeared: the world had shifted so completely from the hallways of St. Mungo’s that it took Nott a moment to regain his bearings.

            They were in the middle of nowhere: it was a cold, heavily wooded area, with a thick drizzle of freezing rain. The skies above them were grey and bleak, and there was a wind that made Nott wish Travers had thought to give him cold-weather robes, or maybe a thick winter cloak. It reminded him uncomfortably of the Forbidden Forest, where he’d been bitten, but he didn’t think it was.

            “Where is he?” Travers looked around, then snorted. “Maybe I should’ve brought a dog whistle.”

            The reference sent a chill down Theodore’s spine. _He can’t be serious_ , he thought. _He can’t be turning me back over to…_

            He caught sight of a large figure moving through the woods. No, he thought, wanting to recoil. Not him. Reflexively, his left hand went to the place on his right shoulder where Greyback had nearly torn through his arm. He’d been lucky not to lose either the arm or the use of it; as it was, the skin was still raw and red in many places, and he knew that his torso, shoulders, and arms would always be covered in scars, particularly on the right side.

            Greyback looked him over. “I did this one?” he asked idly.

            _You did this to me, and you don’t even remember?_ For a moment, Theodore Nott thought that the wolf had simply savaged too many people to recall him specifically, but then he had another, more horrifying idea: he knew werewolves had no control over their actions while transformed. Did they have no memories of that time, either? Or was it a blur, something like a distant memory – the sort of memory an animal might have, not as complex as a human’s?

            _You’ll find out soon enough_ , he told himself grimly. For now, it was all he could do to keep from running. Bitter panic was rising in his chest, memories of that night, and it was all he could do to keep himself from shaking.

            _I will not show fear. I will not give him that satisfaction. I won’t be afraid._

            Travers nodded, continuing the conversation as if Theodore wasn’t there. “Last full moon. Theodore Nott. The one whose father the Dark Lord wanted punished.”

            “That wizard hospital of yours must do a good job. He’s in better shape than most of them.”

            “Well, he’s yours now.” Theodore had been hanging back until then, trying to shield himself behind Travers, but now Travers took him roughly by the arm – by his bad arm – and shoved him towards Greyback. As clusters of pain exploded behind his eyes, he wished desperately for a wand: he’d never cast an Unforgivable Curse on a person, but was sure he could muster one for both Travers and Greyback.

            _I’d even take a knife_ , he thought as he stumbled, almost falling into Greyback. He’d have taken the opportunity to bury it in Greyback’s chest.

_Wonder what the Dark Lord would do if I killed his pet dog?_ It was an idle wish, nothing more than a fantasy, and he knew it. He burned with hatred towards Greyback, hated and feared him, but could do nothing as Greyback reached out and took hold of him, righting him before he fell.

            “Does the Dark Lord have any names for next month?”

            “Not yet. There’ll definitely be someone, though; the Dark Lord will send someone when he has a name.” Travers’s upper lip curled back in an expression of clear distaste; withdrawing a cloth purse from within his robes, he tossed it at Greyback.

            The werewolf caught it; Theodore heard the sound of something heavy and metallic clinking inside. “For your services last month,” Travers said.

            _For biting me, or for threatening others in the Dark Lord’s name?_ Theodore wondered. He’d assumed Greyback obeyed the Dark Lord without payment. If that wasn’t the case, he wondered how much his life had been worth.

            _Put a price on my life, my blood purity, my future_ , he thought, wondering if it had even amounted to ten Galleons.  

            Greyback opened the purse and peered into it, but Theodore Nott couldn’t see anything; too quickly, Greyback tucked it into his robes, nodding curtly. “Tell him I’ll do anyone he lets me. And if he doesn’t have any plans for ‘em, I want the Mudbloods after I Snatch ‘em.”

            “Someone will come when he’s got orders,” Travers replied, refusing to acknowledge Greyback’s demand; again, Theodore could hear that he was talking down to the werewolf, though Greyback didn’t seem to realize it. “Until then, enjoy your Snatching.”

            Without saying anything more – without even a single glance at Theodore Nott – Mortain Travers Disapparated, and Theodore Nott was left alone in the woods with Fenrir Greyback. 

            “Come on,” Greyback said roughly. “You’re one of the pack now. You’ll need a new name. Not a wizard name. A wolf’s name, one that shows you belong here.”

            _Like Fenrir Greyback_. He wondered if it was his real name.

            _Or Remus Lupin_ , he realized, remembering the other werewolf he’d met. He wondered if Lupin had ever encountered Greyback, if there’d been another name he’d left behind long ago.  

            Theodore Nott didn’t want to lose his name. It was all he had left; besides, he wanted his father to hear that reminder, to know that there would be a half-breed bearer of their family name because of his cowardice.

            “Nott has something to do with a moon goddess,” Theodore said tightly, remembering Voldemort’s words. “The Dark Lord said so. Isn’t that good enough?”

            “Nott, then. Not Theodore,” Greyback said. He bared his teeth in approval; it seemed to be his attempt at a smile. His teeth were yellow, and his breath smelled foul, like rotting flesh.

            Theodore was curious about where they were going and what would happen to him, but he didn’t want to talk to Greyback, so he kept his mouth shut. After all, he’d find out soon enough.

            “You’re one of us now. I lead the pack; challenge me and I’ll tear your throat out.” Nott noticed that Greyback’s teeth seemed artificially sharpened; most were jagged, and his canines looked more like vampire fangs than human teeth. His tone was rough, but there seemed to be a touch of camaraderie in his tone that Nott hadn’t thought the werewolf capable of. “Stay loyal, and I’ll offer you more than any wizard ever will.”

            “You hate me now, but it doesn’t matter. You’re a wolf now. No wizard will ever look at you as anything but an animal. If you leave, if you try to live on your own, you’ll fail. They don’t want anything to do with our kind; they don’t want you to be a part of their world. You don’t belong to it now, anyway; you belong here, with this pack.”

            “If you try to live with the wizards, they’ll shun you. They’ll put you on a Registry, tell you where you can and can’t live, keep you from mingling with their kind. They’d cage you, hunt you, kill you. No one loves us.”

            “You can be despised, or you can be feared. Stay with me, and I’ll teach you to hunt them instead of being hunted.”’

_Like you hunted me?_ Nott wanted to ask. He shuddered, trying to repress the memories of the attack, of the way he’d flung his arms up to defend himself against the grey wolf, of the pain he’d felt before slipping into merciful unconsciousness.  

            “The taste of blood, the feel of flesh under your nails…” Greyback licked his lips; Nott suppressed a shudder, trying his best to disguise the sheer horror he felt. “The only way a wizard will ever look at you now is with disgust – unless they fear you.” Greyback bared his teeth again. “You know I’m right.”

            _It’s because he knows I’m afraid of him_. He was living proof of Greyback’s argument. He still hated the werewolf, was still disgusted with his kind – his own kind, now – but he knew Greyback was at least partially right. No right-thinking wizard would ever look at Theodore Nott the same way again. The pure-blooded ones would disdain him; others might look at him with pity or fear, but they would never look at him as an equal.

            _But he’s wrong in thinking that they still aren’t disgusted with him,_ he thought, looking away from Greyback _. No matter how much they fear him, they’ll never respect him. I never will._

 


End file.
